The Middle Ground

The turkey is dry and the gravy is thin,

and my mother is talking about her bad knee.

I look at the window, at the glass and my skin,

and I see someone else looking back at me.

I’m holding my fork with a white-knuckled grip,

pressing my thumb to the edge of the cloth.

I let the same sigh of a grievance just slip,

like a flame being found by a desperate moth.

I swore I would grow into something more kind,

not the martyr, the ghost, or the judge in the hall.

But the ghost is already there in my mind,

and the judge is just waiting to finish the call.